The nuns in a neighboring convent
are chanting the evening office. The sound recalls the chapel at Saint
Zita's, the orchard, the nuns, dear kind Reverend Mother. What peaceful,
happy hours those were? Has she ever known real happiness since she
quitted the quiet convent home of her childhood? Even in the days of her
greatest triumphs, was there not always something she could not attain,
the little bit more which was always wanting? But at Saint Zita's, how
different, oh! how different! Happiness such as the world could not
dream of ruled within its walls. She wonders what they are doing now,
the dear nuns and Reverend Mother. They, too, are probably in the chapel
reciting the office; some of them thinking of her perhaps. What would
they say if they knew how false she has proven to all their teachings,
how careless she has grown in the practice of that religion which is
dearer to them than life itself?
A sentence in the last letter she received from Reverend Mother comes
now to her mind. The letter reached her years before and has never been
answered. The words are these:
"Dear child, you are successful and happy now, with the world at your
feet, but if the day ever comes when all these things fall away from you
and you stand in need of a true friend or of any assistance we can
render, remember Saint Zita's is still your home and your old mother's
heart is sick with longing for a sight of her child.
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